A Victim of Convenience

For you on this day and those to come

Tue, 21 May 2013 15:40:00 -0600

What are we alone, we bones
and blood, we minds and hearts
animated then stranded on our rotating rock
to grow above the heavy handed, to walk
in search that reveals more than find
What are we in the darkness
but children, feeling our way blind
down these vacant yet familiar corridors
fingers poised to touch the light
we’re moving ever toward

Hope passes the blurred masses
on the streets wearing the face of a stranger
and so afraid to meet his eyes, they won’t know him
How fortunate the few that call him friend
and turn in bold degrees
to see him clear, to shift the shadows of the past
into the mist of their peripheries
How full my heart today, my friend, how light
How well-weighed with love for you
these words I write

For You Alone, I Kneel

Fri, 17 May 2013 18:03:48 -0600

ghostsandonionskins:

There are titans on the apex
there are monsters for the flame
I think I was a mountain too
when Jesus was my name

I think that someone moved me
when Allah was a quake
Seven billion hopeless prostrate
to a thousand war mistake

You went dancing in their flowered wakes
we went rolling in their smell
There are urges in your silken dress
to scream sweet proof of hell

There is nothing but the infinite
the universe impressed
The space between our trembling lips
The songbird in your breast

This is painfully beautiful, and I thought, hey… you guys might like to read something painfully beautiful on this here Friday evening. :)

The year after

Tue, 14 May 2013 15:20:38 -0600

I dug a hole in the backyard, approximately
three feet wide and four deep and afterward
couldn’t remember why I’d done it
so Kristin and I made a pitcher of Manhattans
and lists of all the things small and insignificant
enough that they could be buried there

A few more people left, a few more arrived
It’s like a bus (terminal), life, I guess
and after a while, the lady at the ticket counter
stops playing that game where she names each face
and writes them into her romantic tragedy
and simply directs the traffic toward the end of the line

I met this generation’s Cohen
He doesn’t have ears to hear that, but I still have
enough wonder left behind these blind eyes to believe it
and I locked the doors and turned out the lights and sat
for a week with a tea kettle and a whiskey bottle and exorcised
every word I’d ever spoken in my dreams to every ghost
and made them permanent and then slept

I went to the hospital once or twice where they refused
to believe me when I said my heart was beyond repair
and I took up painting and converted the garage into a studio
and then a gym and then an office and then a studio again
I wrote letters I didn’t intend to send, jokes for the people
that don’t realise they’re playing the game and confessions
for those that do, and I photographed undefined moments

My cat died and Erica’s cat died; it was a bad year for cats
apparently, but Kristin pointed out I’d found a use for that hole
It was too late, though; I’d already filled it in with July
Jeremy, August, my father, October, Christmas at your parents’,
what was left of January, and the year’s only snowfall
and looking now, you’d never know it was there at all

Mercy mild

Tue, 07 May 2013 14:55:27 -0600

How many people will wake up tomorrow
with something in their lungs
other than the I love you
hidden away in that satin-lined box for a special occasion

We are too young, you know
to say I would have been
if only
and so today
I am a poet
and you
don’t have cancer

How many people will wake up tomorrow
to the realization that mortal coil
was just the broken box spring
beneath a borrowed twin mattress all along

Yet ours is thicker than water

Wed, 01 May 2013 14:29:22 -0600

Patrick, I’ve walked in the footprints of saints
a sinner in summer silk, barefoot and born
of the same cradle song that spun its constraints
through the paladins’ downcast, leviathan scorn

Patrick, I’ve prayed to the first light of morning
the fiberglass idols adorned on their thrones
to the sweat and the solitude, false and forewarning
the gathering host and their pride-purchased stones

Patrick, I’ve bent for the meek, and I’ve burned
for the frightened that drape in the guise of the bold
and I’ve wept over boxes and bowed before urns
but the way is still long, and the night is still cold

A pawn, a rook, a polished nightonyx against the alabasterwood and stone, would she alonemove...

Thu, 25 Apr 2013 14:40:29 -0600

A pawn, a rook, a polished night
onyx against the alabaster
wood and stone, would she alone
move kingdoms if you asked her

Thursday with a hammer
Friday with a sigh and curve of hip
and lesser men have lain down arms
for less from looser lips

Broken on the bedroom boards
fine china, dawn, promises, hearts
A maddened mind’s mosaic
fashions absence into art

and fills the empty spaces in
with ether, air and light
then leaves the sad to do their dying
silent, shamed and out of sight

I leave poppies on the park benches nowfor the ghosts of the young soldiersimprisoned in the old...

Wed, 24 Apr 2013 15:11:00 -0600

I leave poppies on the park benches now
for the ghosts of the young soldiers
imprisoned in the old men’s eyes
They lie a scarlet offense to the grey-green iron
defiantly alive against the rotting wood
until the church bells break the silence
to mark the slow march of the bent and weary
and defiantly alive; and the silence reclaims

as they pause to let the others pass-
the ones I can’t see- before pinning my offerings
to sharp lapels and plotting their strategies
behind neat formations on well-worn chess boards
And I will stain my lips a scarlet offense to quiet words
wake early on Sundays to spin ringlets through my hair
and blush demurely as they ask for a song
all for the chance to see this dying desert
for one moment bloom a Paris spring

Thanks :)

Tue, 23 Apr 2013 15:15:08 -0600

I was just pleasantly surprised (more shocked, actually, considering I haven’t been writing much lately) to find several extremely lovely messages in my inbox… thank you, guys. :) Truly. The ol’ real world has been doing a number on me here recently, and I can’t adequately express how much the kind words meant. Thanks again… all of you. For reading, for sticking around, and for being lights in dark places.

A Victim of Convenience: And did we need a savioror do saviors need the lostsomeone to tell,...

Tue, 23 Apr 2013 14:45:37 -0600

A Victim of Convenience: And did we need a savioror do saviors need the lostsomeone to tell,...:

And did we need a savior
or do saviors need the lost
someone to tell, something to sell
at distribution cost
a handshake with a hatchet
inamorato with a spike
who sits upon his mount and waits
for you to make the hike

The earth, she has been promised
to the patient and the meek
who spill the wine and stand in line
and smell of doublespeak
for what they’ll say tomorrow
they haven’t done today
and what they tell you not to
is what they’ll do anyway

Necks stiff from gazing up at
messiahs on mezzanines
who trickle down in walls of sound
their dishwater decrees
the confluence won’t question
the multitudes won’t ask
theory becomes acceptance
when it’s not taken to task

So see it for simplicity
mistake it for profound
but the basic art of saving
lies in needing to be found

I did the best favor I could think of for the man that told me the backs of my eyelidsmust shame the...

Tue, 16 Apr 2013 14:52:00 -0600

I did the best favor I could think of
for the man that told me the backs of my eyelids
must shame the walls of the world’s great galleries
-I didn’t fall in love with him
not by that knee-jerk definition
that sets off alarms on biological clocks
sends every shadow-spooked soul
afraid to sit alone in a coffee shop on a Saturday
rushing to the hardware store for hammer, nails
and white picket slats

You can mislabel
virtually every other human emotion
love
but not that lurch in your gut
that trapdoor free fall
that sends people like me
jumping out of airplanes
in a vain attempt to replicate it
and people who forgot
to the end of a rope

He calls from Zurich or Austria
and with his eyes open
and mine closed
I walk down a Saturday cobblestone street
through the shades of history
and join him for coffee

Outside on the patio
the man that says he still loves me
stares into a bottomless night
and says he can see a flowerbed
a lawnmower and a fence
just because he knows they’re there
You can mislabel that
faith
but I think it’s the death of magic
and not all ropes
are merciful enough to snap your neck

You turned the volume loweras if quieting the soundof the ocean rushing through the doorwould mean...

Fri, 12 Apr 2013 15:03:00 -0600

You turned the volume lower
as if quieting the sound
of the ocean rushing through the door
would mean we needn’t drown
like the thousand frozen faces
on the evening news at five
would be home in time for dinner
if we didn’t hear they’d died

In the dark, this town looks cleaner
neon hope and bar-stool vows
that we won’t be here when we’re older
when we shouldn’t be here now
and while the sidewalk nameless hold their breath
not knowing what it’s worth
with a thunderclap to shake the soul
a dreamer falls to earth

And still you beg to lie beside me
like this poison can be bled
to slumber unashamed and deaf
to the screaming inside my head
but my touch, my love, is tinder
and it burns until it’s spent
We’re either prisoners or sovereigns
of the worlds that we invent

A poem for the poet

Wed, 10 Apr 2013 13:56:32 -0600

Have you read the one about the stars?

Not the billion lights burning in and out of existence
in time with every breath held long enough to matter
another world ending so midnight lovers might wish for immortality
not just histories and futures but ancient gods and divination
silver trails of breadcrumbs and horizon-bound road maps
that don’t fall but are sacrificed, that don’t bid you gather what’s left
to sprinkle in someone’s hair but send you stumbling away from it
empty and full, embarrassed and terrified, and better- always better.

No, just those bits of flaking night hanging suspended
over her eyes and his lips and someone else’s 1 a.m. Taco Bell run.
That guy will tell you about those stars again tomorrow
like he’s selling them, and only the Taco Bell line will be longer.

The year they found Stephenfloating in the shallowsat Brantley LakeI stopped having birthday...

Fri, 05 Apr 2013 14:57:00 -0600

The year they found Stephen
floating in the shallows
at Brantley Lake
I stopped having birthday parties
I was 8, scabbed knees
LA Gears and faerie wings
He was 11, skateboards
baseball bats and stray dogs
that followed him
through the neighborhood
like disciples
for the lost can sense their own
And I think I loved him
but that word still stung
like leather
and smelled of bourbon

He told you he was magicand a thousand other thingsthe puppeteer sings to his hollow toyswhile...

Thu, 04 Apr 2013 14:54:00 -0600

He told you he was magic
and a thousand other things
the puppeteer sings to his hollow toys
while tightening the strings
so you practiced the illusion
till you learned how to believe
and hid your eyes behind the handkerchiefs
he pulled out of his sleeve

Now your wooden heart’s grown heavy
and your feet drag on the floor
and the smile that he painted
looks more faded than before
but he still conjures you at parties
though his spark smoke charms have cooled
and in the crowd, the whispers wonder
which of you is more the fool

Dear dancing doll, I have seen magic
felt alchemy poured into
my veins by one who chooses fire
when for the rest hot air would do
and you love it ‘cause it breaks you
and you fear it for the same
but even crumbled stone survives
where the wooden succumb to flame

They named the mind’s plague dissonanceand it seeps in through the earA discordant...

Wed, 03 Apr 2013 14:46:00 -0600

They named the mind’s plague dissonance
and it seeps in through the ear
A discordant disillusion
sounds like worry, feels like fear
so you christen it and coddle it
and hope that you’ll unhear
the weather sirens and the church bells
that rang your intention clear

It’s surrender to the stigma
that’s the abstract in the art
but still you swear the note won’t stand
when the sonata’s torn apart
that the clash of skin won’t end
the righteous war before it starts
They named the mind’s plague dissonance
and order’s plague the heart

For Dani and Her Unbearable Lightness

Tue, 02 Apr 2013 14:29:00 -0600

My best friend when I was 13
bought me The Unbearable Lightness of Being
and sat most nights cross-legged on my bedroom floor
pretending to watch Food Network
but actually watching my face as I read
She knew I was finished before I did
perched on the end of my bed 10 minutes before I saw her
like some elemental that might blow away on the next breeze
sapling arms, reed fingers (too thin, too thin)
closed over mine
“What’s it about?” she asked
“Everything,” I said, “and nothing at all
and the significance of every potential something between”
and I kissed her forehead
and went into the kitchen at 3 a.m. to make chicken marsala
while she pretended not to see me
slipping protein powder into the sauce

“Go to New York,” I said, “because you’ll only get one chance”
“Write,” she said, “because I need you to explain me to me”
and three magazine spots later, spots of blood on her tissue
her brother called to tell me she was killing herself
and I wrote six letters and 17 poems in one night and showed no one
baked four dozen cookies and put them in the mail the next morning
called her to tell her her lightness was unbearable
and instead sang Buckley songs into her answering machine

Three weeks later and two days before the breeze took her
she answered to ask the last truly important questions

“You want to be a chef because?”
“Because you’re starving.”
“But you need to be a writer…?”
“Because I am.”

Epitaph

Fri, 29 Mar 2013 14:21:00 -0600

Lay me to rest
past the edge
of the map
when at last
I know sleep
and leave you
no stone
nor mar you
the earth
for the sake
of your grief;
let the mother
reclaim
what she knows
for her own

Let the mother
reclaim
what she knows
for her own
Let the heather
remember
and all else
release
Leave my spirit
to roam
where the gods
dare not tread
when at last
I know rest
when at last
I know peace

When at last
I know peace
let no mourner
disturb
let no misery
trespass
no loneliness
yearn
If my spirit
you seek
speak my name
to the wind
for of this
I was born
and to this
I’ll return

Is there a reason you only ever reblog Ghosts and Onionskins or is it just because you're a fangirl kiss ass? Other people reblog you, maybe you should return the favor sometimes.

Thu, 28 Mar 2013 21:48:34 -0600

As a few people were recently kind enough to remind me, m’dear, explanations as per the wanton rhyming and other wild poetic antics that take place on my blog are not a requirement, seeing as how… y’know, it’s my blog. But as you send a variation of this message each and every time I reblog something, please take this one-time-only response as an invitation to kindly cut it out.

I am well aware of the people that reblog me, and I am humbled each and every time someone does so. The words “means a lot” have been uttered enough times on tumblr to make the sentiment seem diluted, but it does- it means a damned lot. I appreciate it, I love it, and I love those people. A lack of reciprocation on my part does in no way, shape or form indicate otherwise.

It simply so happens that there is, in fact, a specific reason why I do what I do, and if you’d like to message me in a private setting, I’d be more than happy to lay such on you.

Otherwise, if what’s going to sate you is to hear that I am a fangirl, then by all means, hear that instead. I totally draw the line at the ass thing, but yes, yes, damnit, I am a fangirl, just a squealing, flailing, card-carrying member of the club, and here, while we’re at it, is my card:

Now please, merciful Anonymous, let us be done with this. :)

ghostsandonionskins: Listen! It’s all wrong this god damned mess! When people see passion and...

Thu, 28 Mar 2013 15:14:00 -0600

ghostsandonionskins:

Listen!

It’s all wrong
this god damned mess!
When people see passion
and without a thousand
images to anchor it
to themselves
think it unmotivated

Some people don’t have words
just honesty
and a founded fear
that they’ll be dismissed

And sometimes, sure
it’s a hollow trick
but who’s so fucking proud
that they can see a soul
beg to be held
and not think
“this is the greatest thing possible”?

Whose hands hold the stringsthat compel you to dancefor the crass congregationentrenched and...

Thu, 28 Mar 2013 13:25:00 -0600

Whose hands hold the strings
that compel you to dance
for the crass congregation
entrenched and entranced
as you seek to inherit
the earth for yourself
by your silent submission
secure on your shelf

Who spoke the command
that ignited the war
from a parapet over
the tired and sore
faces frozen in fear
that felt more like relief
Suffer unto the weak
the burden of belief

Whose urgent breast swelled
and whose throat loosed the scream
that tore through the world’s last
sweet, oblivious dream
By the sleep of the just
does the righteous soul mend
but this waking, this waking
goes on without end